


there ain't a language (for the things I feel)

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Feelings, Friends As Matchmakers, Holding Hands, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved Cobb Vanth, and there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Having successfully caught their bounty, Cobb and Din need a place to stay for the night in an unfamiliar town.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 33
Kudos: 108
Collections: DinCobb Valentine's Bingo 2021





	there ain't a language (for the things I feel)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [retrojupiter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrojupiter/gifts).



> special thanks to @retrojupiter for getting me jumpstarted on this when i literally had no clue what to write :') lov u bro <3
> 
> _tw for implied sexual content but it is not 'on screen'_

Cobb laughed as they tumbled onto the bed together, all the breath punched out of him as Din’s weight settled onto him. “Get off me, you weigh a bit more than a loth-cat.” 

“Sorry,” said the Mandalorian, pushing himself up and off of the marshal to collapse onto the bed next to him, the limited space meaning his arm ended up flopped on top of Cobb’s. Despite his effort to rest it on his own body, Din’s pauldron was still digging into Cobb’s shoulder. 

Cobb really couldn’t bring himself to care, huffing a laugh when Din just groaned. His armor was well lit by the soft yellow glow of the hotel room’s lights, which Din had barely managed to elbow on when they’d staggered through the door. 

Din.

_Din._

And wasn’t that a treasure, to have the Mandalorian’s name. Sure had felt like a gift, when Din had offered it, his voice so quiet in the evening Tatooine air that Cobb almost hadn’t caught it. 

Din let out a loud sigh and sat up, hauling himself off the bed, and Cobb stayed where he was, head thrown back and sides still heaving — he tilted his head enough to watch the Mandalorian begin to remove his armor, checking each piece for damage. 

“Not hit too bad, were you?” said Cobb, and Din’s helmet lifted, the heat of the Mandalorian’s gaze on him. “With all that beskar. I know it can take a good hit, but don’t it bruise any?” 

“Some,” said Din. “It’s built to fit me, though, to disperse the impact and limit damage.” He set his cuirass down and returned to the bed, helmet tilting. “You were hit, too. Show me.” 

“It ain’t bad,” said Cobb, but it _was_ starting to hurt, now that the adrenaline and euphoria of a job well done was fading. "Odd that this place only had one room left, don’t you think? Seems plenty quiet. _Ow,"_ he complained when Din began tugging on the straps of his leather armor. "Easy on the goods, darlin'."

"Shut up," said Din, and peeled back the shirt from underneath the tak vest. "Look at you. _Di'kut._ I have _beskar,_ why did you take that hit for me?" 

"Old habits, I guess." Din's touch lifted for a moment, and returned, glove removed and bare fingers ghosting over Cobb's skin, and he shuddered. 

Din pulled back. “Sorry.” He took a breath in — it sounded a little shaky, but his touch was firm when he started prodding at Cobb’s side again. “Doesn’t seem too deep.” 

“I’ll live,” said Cobb, and Din hummed in agreement, resting one knee on the bed as he tugged Cobb’s torn shirt away from the would. 

And— 

—pretty sure he heard fabric ripping. 

“You ruin that shirt and you’ll be the one stitchin’ it back up,” said Cobb, and that silver helmet angled to bestow an impressively withering look on him despite being expressionless. 

“You’re lucky I’m not stitching _you_ up,” said Din, but there was no threat in his voice. Cobb shrugged one shoulder, wincing as Din poked at the blaster burn slicing across his side. “I have a little bacta, it should patch you up well enough.” 

“No need for it, it’ll heal on its own,” said Cobb, but Din ignored him, removing a small packet from one of his many pockets and tearing it open, squeezing out pale gel and letting it drip onto Cobb’s side. “Fucking _hell,_ Din, that’s cold.” 

“Sorry,” said Din, again, and at least his hand was warm, cupping under the wound to catch the gel when it slid down Cobb’s skin, carefully spread over the length of the wound. Cobb forced himself to let out the breath he’d been holding, only to inhale sharply when Din pressed his entire hand to Cobb’s side, smoothing a patch of gauze to be taped down. “Cobb? You alright?” 

“Yeah,” said Cobb, and his voice came out breathier than he’d intended. Swallowed hard, cleared his throat. “Feels good.” 

The hand, that is. 

The bacta, too, easing the burn of the wound, but— 

—Din was _touching him._

So very gently. 

Been a long, long time since anyone had touched Cobb like that — tenderly, like he was worth caring for. Like he was worth something more than a quick roll in the hay— 

“Good,” said Din, and the bastard left his hand on Cobb’s side, his thumb absently stroking Cobb’s skin beside the edge of the bandage. Which didn’t help Cobb very much in putting inappropriate thoughts out of his head. “That should hold. And I’ll fix your shirt, when we get back. I don’t have a sewing kit with me.” 

Of course mister scoutmaster Mandalorian would have a sewing kit. That he left behind, but _still._ Even _Cobb_ didn’t have a sewing kit, and was constantly pestering Werlo to use his. Maybe about time he invested in his own. 

“You want the rest of this off?” said Din, finally removing his hand and giving Cobb a chance to discreetly catch his breath, tapping his bared fingers over Cobb’s leather vambraces. “Might have to sit up if you want that vest off.” 

“Probably,” said Cobb, and Din offered his hand to pull him up. 

Kriff, but his hands were soft, the second time Cobb had really held the Mandalorian’s hand for any length of time longer than a brief handshake, the first time he’d felt skin on skin for such a touch. Must be the years of wearing gloves. 

“Slowly,” said Din, pressing a hand to Cobb’s chest and stealing his breath away just as quickly, helping him ease upright slower. “Don’t undo all my hard work.” 

Cobb managed a snort at that. “‘Hard work,’ my ass. I didn’t see you chasing down that slaver.” 

“I was just going to shoot him,” said Din drily, gripping Cobb’s vest and effortlessly lifting it off of him, setting it carefully beside his own armor on the low table. “Maybe in the shoulder, instead of the knee, so we wouldn’t have to carry him back.” 

“Didn’t want him to get away,” said Cobb, and sighed when Din grabbed his arm and began unbuckling his vambraces for him. “You know I can do that, right? Just a hit to the side, my arms are fine.” 

“Shut up and let me help you,” said Din, and his voice was soft, softer than his touch, and Cobb bit his tongue to keep his mouth shut. “Don’t do that again.” 

“Do what?” So much for shutting up. 

“Step between me and someone aiming a blaster.” Din flicked him on the forehead, such a childish, petty gesture that Cobb could only laugh. “I’m serious, Cobb. My armor is strong, it can take more than a little blaster fire. I won’t see you hurt if I can avoid it.” 

“I won’t see you hurt, either,” said Cobb, and Din’s hands stilled on his other arm, fingers gripping the buckles of the vambrace. “You’re not made of durasteel, Din, you’re not invulnerable. There’s plenty of places you can still be hit, even with all that beskar—” 

Din slid the vambrace from his arm, and closed his hand around Cobb’s wrist, freezing whatever words Cobb might’ve had in his throat. “Don’t do that again, Cobb,” he said quietly. “Please.” 

“Alright,” said Cobb, voice soft, and he turned his hand to grip Din’s wrist, both of them holding onto each other. “‘s long as you try not to get shot at as much.” 

Din squeezed his wrist gently. “Deal.” He let go, and Cobb loosened his hold as well, letting his fingers trail over Din’s palm, their fingertips catching together for the briefest of moments. 

Pretty sure he imagined the way Din’s breath caught in his throat as they both pulled away. 

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” said Cobb, when Din reached for his shin guards. “Get your own, Din. Don’t think we’ll fit too well on this bed with all that armor on.” 

Din hesitated, helmet turning as he looked around the room. “Ah,” he said. “There really is only one bed.” 

“You didn’t notice when we came in?” drawled Cobb, dropping his shin guards to the floor without ceremony and leaning down further to tug off his boots, wincing as his side pulled. “It’s not a big room, where did you think the other one was hiding?” 

“Don’t be an ass, Vanth,” said Din, but it sure sounded like he was smiling under that helmet of his. “I had other things on my mind.” 

“Other things, huh.” Cobb waggled his eyebrows at him, and Din flipped him a hand sign Cobb recognised as Tusken sign language, and something very, very rude. “Manners, Mando.” 

_How’s your signing?_ signed the Mandalorian, and Cobb sent him back a ruder gesture — sure enough, a huff of laughter escaped Din, and Cobb ducked his head to hide a pleased grin. “Better, then. Good. I wasn’t sure whether the town would still be standing when I got back.” 

“So little _trust,_ Din,” said Cobb, sitting back with a groan, checking that he hadn’t undone Din’s tape job on his side before flopping backward onto the bed again. “Should’ve grabbed dinner before we got in here, I’m too tired to go back out now.” 

A ration bar bounced off his chest and hit him in the face. 

“Thanks,” he said, lifting his head enough to glower at Din, who just signed _Eat your food_ back at him before occupying his hands with removing his own boots. Cobb ripped open the wrapper with his teeth and took a bite, watching Din. 

The Mandalorian looked less like a figure of legend standing there in his flightsuit and socks, but still cut an imposing shape, strong muscles clear through his thin shirt as he tugged the outer layer of his flightsuit off. 

Kriffing hell, the man wore _suspenders._

It made sense, with the type of getup Din wore, but Cobb had to wheeze around a mouthful of ration bar to keep from choking on his own laughter. 

“If you’re going to get crumbs on the bed, you can sleep on the floor,” said Din, but he had his own ration bar in hand as he settled on the bed beside Cobb again, the bed dipping in the middle enough to have his side pressed to Cobb’s, a long line of heat. Cobb shivered, taking another bite to hide his indecision of whether he should budge over to give the Mandalorian more space, but Din solved the issue himself by shifting as close to Cobb as physically possible. “You warm enough?” 

“Yeah,” said Cobb, and didn’t choke, by some miracle. “You got enough room?” 

“Plenty.” Din was quiet for a while, then reached up, lifting his helmet. 

Cobb jerked his gaze across the room, fixing it to the wall. Took another bite of his ration bar. 

“It’s alright,” said Din, and his voice sounded softer, without the vocoder of his helmet. “I don’t mind.” 

“Eat your food,” said Cobb, parroting Din’s earlier words back at him, and Din laughed, his whole body shaking from it, and Cobb could feel that laugh all the way to his bones. 

_Kriff._

Actually, that kind of hurt — his injured side was pressed against Din’s. 

Cobb decided he didn’t care, and dropped his empty wrapper, crumbs and all, on Din’s chest. 

“Hey,” complained the Mandalorian, but he rolled up both wrappers and chucked them into a bin, out of sight. “Need anything? Water? How’s the pain?” 

“I’m fine,” said Cobb, reaching over with the arm _not_ pinned between him and the Mandalorian to pat Din’s chest reassuringly. He could take a little soreness, he was used to it. 

Didn’t realise he’d let his hand linger until Din’s hand closed over his, and his breath froze in his lungs again. 

“Your hands are cold,” said Din quietly. 

“You gonna warm them up, then?” said Cobb, and he was only half joking— 

“I might,” said Din, and Cobb _really_ needed to remind himself to breathe again. “Should probably get up enough to move the blanket.” 

Neither of them made any motion to do so. 

Someone moaned, loudly, and Cobb was pretty sure it wasn’t him. He turned his head, finding Din’s helmet directed at him, and opened his mouth to ask if everything was okay. 

Another moan, much louder this time, and the sound of creaking bed springs. 

From the room next to them. 

Cobb and Din laid there in stunned silence for a moment, as the sounds got louder, low moans turning into wails and the sound of the headboard slamming into the wall made their own room shake. 

Then Din started to laugh, his hand squeezing Cobb’s gently, and a laugh bubbled out of Cobb, too, both of them giggling hard enough that Cobb groaned and pulled his hand free to press it to his side, grinning at Din. 

“I’m starting to understand why the room had only one bed,” said Din, and Cobb groaned again. 

"Last time I let Werlo recommend a hotel to me," he said. 

“You think he did this on purpose?” 

“Oh, I _know_ he did,” groused Cobb, shifting with a grunt, getting a little wiggle room between his arm and his side again. “Nosy sonnuvabitch never knows when to mind his own business.” 

Din was radiating warmth next to him, perfectly still, and Cobb hesitated just a moment before reaching out his hand again. Din laced their fingers together without comment, pulling Cobb’s hand to cradle it to his chest again, and Cobb grinned up at the ceiling, probably looking far too silly for his age. “Want me to get the light?” 

Cobb groaned, squinting across the room at the switch. “Gimme your boot.” 

“My what.” 

_“Gimme,”_ repeated Cobb, and Din reached down beside the bed to grab one of his boots, handing it to Cobb, who let go of Din’s hand long enough to heft up the boot and hurl it across the room, slamming heel-first into the switch, and the lights dimmed into darkness.

“Wow,” said Din drily. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or not.” 

“Be impressed, Mando, I have many talents.” Cobb trailed his fingers over Din’s chest, and Din laced their fingers together again. 

“I’m sure you do,” said Din, sounding far too amused, and also _different,_ in the dark. 

He’d taken the helmet off. 

Cobb was hoping that the huge breath he’d just sucked in could be blamed on the wound on his side and not the way his heart was pounding its way up to his throat. 

“Go to sleep, Cobb,” said Din, his voice low, and he was smiling, Cobb could hear it in his voice. 

He turned his head, bumping into Din’s shoulder, and the Mandalorian let out a soft, contented hum, squeezing his hand again gently. “You, too, Din.”

“Plenty to do tomorrow,” said Din, and yawned, jaw-crackingly wide. The noises in the next room over reached a yelping pitch, and Cobb snickered. “If we ever get to sleep.”

“Have a little trust, Mando,” said Cobb, drowsy, voice somewhat muffled in Din’s shoulder, and there was that hand squeezing his again, that thumb drawing a slow line back and forth over his. 

“I do, you know,” whispered Din in the dark. “Trust you.” 

This time it was Cobb who squeezed Din’s hand, just a little. “I know,” he whispered back. “I trust you, too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> once again, bonus points to anyone who can gets what song inspired the title! (it's a hint for _ghost of you_ btw... ;) )
> 
> Mando'a translation: Di'kut - idiot 
> 
> Tropes used for the Bingo:  
> \- Free Square! Touch-starved  
> \- Friends playing matchmaker (thanks, Werlo!!)


End file.
